


ghosting along

by rainhours



Category: Sanders Sides, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, Human AU, Sanders Sides - Freeform, Sibling AU, So yeah, and there’s a ghost named virgil, ghost au, so in this one logan and pat are brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-04-24 01:32:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainhours/pseuds/rainhours
Summary: “you don’t need treats,you don’t need tricks,and you don’t need me.”-ghosting by mother motherin which a far-too-factual older brother and his far-too-frustrating younger brother meet a spirit in patchwork purple





	1. but what if?

Thud. I set down the last beige cardboard box. Finally, the endless walking to and from the truck was over. But I shouldn’t be complaining. Exercise like that is beneficial to your health. 

Suddenly another thud echoed across the room. I looked up to see my younger brother, Patton, laying on the floor (after sliding across it in his socks and crashing). You could probably hear his laughter throughout the entire house. He announced, “We are now officially moved in!” 

“Grammar.” I snapped. 

He executed his best pouty face. “Oh, Logical Logan.” 

“It’s just Logan. You don’t see me calling you ‘Playful Patton’. Or ‘Pestiferous Patton’.” 

“Pest... p-pestif-pestiferous?” 

“Synonym for annoying.” 

Patton stood up off the floor and began to march towards me. “I am NOT annoying! You’re just being... c-close...close-thinking?” 

I sighed. He wasn’t the best at memorizing vocabulary like I was. “Close-minded, you imbecile.” 

Now, I had used that one enough for him to know what it meant. 

“Shut up, you leloquent nerd!” 

“ELOQUENT. E-LO-QUENT. AKA NOT WHAT YOU ARE,” I taunted as he marched upstairs. Gosh, he WAS an imbecile. And stubborn. 

My dad walked through the doorway, carrying a box and two pairs of scissors. “Logan, please try and be more accepting of your little brother. He’s trying his best.” 

“Well, to me his best isn’t good enough,” I responded, grabbing a pair of scissors and sitting down to open up a box. 

Dad sighed and stabbed a hole through the tape. “Kiddo, you just gotta be more... lenient with him.” 

Lenient: Adjective. Of mild and tolerant disposition or effect; not harsh, severe, or strict. Lenient wasn’t the best word to describe me. My father, however, could possibly be described using this term. Mr. Emile Sanders, as all his colleagues knew him as, was the assisstant manager at December’s Formalwear. To them, he was a very good representation of the term “lenient”. 

“I’m just trying to teach him vocabulary that could lead to success and recognition in the future!” 

“What if that isn’t his dream?” 

I paused. “W-what?” 

“What if ‘success and recognition’ isn’t what he wants to pursue in the future? It sounds more like what YOU want him to be than what HE wants to be.” 

I slammed down the box in my arms. “Whatever, I’m going to start unpacking my belongings.” 

As I walked upstairs, I could hear Dad say, “I’m just trying to show you that not everyone has to be so factual all the time!” But I ignored him. Facts were essential to living. 

The only downside to the new house was that I was forced to share a room with Patton. To be honest, I would much rather have stayed in our cramped one-floor house, where despite the minuscule size of my room, it was still not shared. 

The bedroom in the new house, however, was bigger, and could accommodate a bunk bed and desk. I made a mental reminder to claim top bunk as soon as the topic was discussed. The walls were a pale grey, faded by the sun’s UV rays. I would have been able to tell what color the carpet was then, if it wasn’t entirely covered by beige cardboard boxes. In the center, Patton was removing the contents of a box labeled “CLOTHES”. He didn’t seem to notice my arrival, so I decided to try and “prank” him. 

With an overpowered voice, I shouted at him, “DID DAD SAY YOU COULD START UNPACKING YET?!” 

He dropped the pair of socks he was holding as he squealed. I have to admit, I snickered at him. Boy, that “prank” worked well! 

“LOGARITHM ALBERT SANDERS!!” He spun around and shouted back. 

“Woah woah woah... what did you just call me?” 

“Uh- um... Logarithm?” Patton’s face grew red, a common side effect of embarrassment. “I-I found it in one of your big nerdy textbooks.” 

I hate to admit it, but I found that quite humorous. Or as they say in the modern world, “LOL”. 

“Logarithm Sanders actually fits me well,” I said, taking a seat next to him after precariously stepping over a maze of boxes. 

Patton let me borrow his scissors to cut open a box labeled “LOGAN’S STUFF”. Inside this was all my textbooks, which would be essential for starting my junior year of high school after the summer was over. It was only June, but you can never be too prepared. Besides, I wanted to graduate prior to the other students’ graduation and go to an advanced college. I couldn’t wait for seeing the lecture halls of Harvard or Duke or- 

“I’m so excited to start fourth grade next year!” Patton said suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. 

Yeah, we had a six-year age gap between us. (Author’s note: me and my brothers have a seven-year age gap so at least they’re slightly closer) A lot of people assumed I was older than sixteen, and assumed that Patton was younger than ten. Neither assumption is true. 

“Yeah, fourth grade is so exciting,” I remarked sarcastically, “just wait until you get to high school.” 

“Ooh, what’s that like?” He leaned in closer to me. 

“Well, you get tests almost every day, there’s hours of homework assigned for you to complete (which is why I will stay up extremely late with the light on, come August), your classes are all over the place, and every single teacher is bothersome in one way or another.”

He sat there, stunned. 

“Oh...” 

I snickered. “Don’t worry, according to my calculations you won’t be in high school for another 4 years.” 

We continued unpacking the boxes with minimal conversation. Just vague, unimportant statements like “where should this go” or “did you unpack everything you’ll need for tonight”. Through our combined teamwork efforts, we had managed to get through about 1/3 of the boxes. The sun had disappeared over the horizon to begin a new day elsewhere, and as I unrolled the sleeping bags we’d use for tonight, Patton stared out the window. 

Because of our smaller rooms back at the old house, we didn’t have much window to admire the outside with from a comfortable difference. One of the few pros this shared bedroom had was its bigger window. That would be interesting to stargaze out of, I though to myself. 

So I did the unthinkable and joined Patton. 

I sighed as I folded my arms on the narrow ledge. It had been a long day. From the car ride to unpacking to slight sibling squabbles, I was more than ready to get some well-needed sleep. 

“Doesn’t everything feel possible now?” He said to me.

“Pardon?”

“I don’t know, I just get this sense of... possibility in the air.” 

“Possibility is a mere construct of the mind, and therefore cannot physically be found in the air. This leads me to my conclusion that we should carry on with our lives and not make this move between living spaces seem more drastic than it is.” 

I thought this would shut him up. I really did.

“... but what if?” 

I sighed again. “What do you mean?” 

“What if, Logan? I feel like... something big is going to happen, so-something out of the ordinary. What if it does, and you’ve been wrong all this time?” 

“What if YOU were the wrong one?” 

“What if YOU got an i-i- AN IMAGINATION!!” 

“BOYS!” Our father’s voice cut through the rage. “PLEASE, GO TO SLEEP!” 

I stalked off to where the sleeping bags lay and clambered into mine. Patton did the same. I could hear him make a sort of “huff” noise as he lay down. 

We lay in silence for a few seconds. Then he rolled over and said to me, “Just try and... think outside the box, Lo. Have some fun.” 

I couldn’t tolerate anymore of what he had to say. “I am perfectly content with residing INside the box, thank you very much.” 

The sleeping bag crinkled as I turned over to my side. 

“And it’s Logan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh wow this turned out better than expected
> 
> be prepared for hint-dropping in the next chapter 
> 
> -milo


	2. stirring up dust

I flung open the closet door, releasing a cloud of dust that made me break out into a minor coughing fit. When I could finally see again through my watery eyes, I began to make sense of the closet in our bedroom. 

The bright afternoon sun shone through and lit up the dusty space. Most of the inside was empty, painted a dull beige that didn’t match the bluish-grey of the room at all. The old homeowners must have been too lazy to paint it to match. There was a hard-to reach shelf a few inches higher than my head that would be optimal for storing items.

There was lots of dust that was visibly floating around in the light, in that strange way that you can see it when the light shines. I’ll have to research that later. 

As I walked through it to begin sorting clothes, I felt a strange sensation of low temperatures- a “chill”, if you would- course through me. It was like... a cold gas of some sort. But it wasn’t like any type of substance I’d experienced. It seemed to perfectly fit my body, going no further than the space around my arms. It held me frozen in place. 

I could move. But I didn’t. 

After a few seconds, the chill left my chest, then my arms, then finally my back, as if it was drifting through me. At last, this peculiar phenomenon was over. But... what was it? 

I left the question on hold as I gathered up clothes to hang. 

So maybe Patton was right, I thought to myself. Maybe this new house did have something strange about it. 

No. That’s impossible. It was probably just some... cold air or something. 

I didn’t want to believe in the strange, the screwy, or the supernatural. I wanted a normal life. I wanted... real. Not imaginary. I had no time for imaginary.

I wanted my whole life to be as real as the socks on my feet. End of mental discussion. 

I continued to place my clothing in its respective spot. AKA, organizing.

What I didn’t realize was at the time, I wasn’t wearing socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh some strange sickness is kicking my ass 
> 
> this was just a shorter chapter to lead into the next one bc that’s what chapters do 
> 
> apologies for making logan kind of a dick, i promise he’ll be redeemed later 
> 
> (also should i incorporate roman into this?? i have a really vague idea of what i’d do if i did, but i also kinda like it without that subplot)
> 
> -milo


	3. half-opacity figure

Finally, after two days of strenuous work, everything was unpacked, built, and organized. The house finally felt like it could be lived in. Dad had just gone to the grocery store to pick up some more supplies, so Patton and I were home alone. He was hunting down the necessary supplies to make his famous "Summer Cookies' (aka No-Bake Cookies). I was sitting on the couch, re-reading To Kill A Mockingbird. It was a peculiar phenomenon, the unease I felt when I would look up and grow panicked at how this wasn't the house I had known. My mind was continuously replaying what Patton said about it. “We’ve made it a HOME now, Logie!” 

“It’s LOGAN,” I snapped, “and it has always been a home.” 

“No it hasn’t. Before, it was just a “house”. Now it’s an actual “home”!” 

“There is no difference.” 

“But the word ‘home’ seems so much more... comforting.” 

“Well, a house is a home, and a home is a house. End of discussion.”

He had huffed with annoyance and marched into the kitchen, announcing, "Whatever, I'll just make some cookies." 

It's strange how he solves problems like that. Just... bakes it all away.

That was where we were now. Just some soft clutters of containers shifting positions on the counter and turning pages. 

What was.. that thing in the closet? And what if HE knew? 

“Hey, uh, brother?” 

A spoon clattered on the counter and his kid-high voice responded, “Yeah, Lo?” 

Ignoring the nickname, I asked, “Something... out of the ordinary happened to me a couple days ago.” 

“Oh?” He picked up the spoon again and continued preparing the cookies. 

“It was... difficult to describe, but I will try to the best of my capability. I was standing in front of the closet, and as I was sorting items, a strange chilled feeling came from within.” 

Patton snickered. “The souls of the gays?” 

I have to admit that that got a chuckle out of me. But I quickly regained my composure and continued.

“It... it certainly wasn’t normal, it definitely wasn’t like anything I had ever felt before. It almost had a force that was attracting it. It specifically traveled THROUGH me. I could feel it extremely well.”

Another eerie silence fell between us while we contemplated. 

“A ghost?” Patton suggested.

I leapt off the couch. “A WHAT NOW?” 

Patton was holding a tray of dark brown lumps of batter. “A ghost,” he calmly replied before placing the cookies in the fridge to set. That was why they were called No-Bake Cookies. No baking. Quite obvious. 

I sighed. “There is no such thing as ghosts. Never have been, never will be. They are but fictional creatures.” I was extremely confident in my answer as I spun around to return to my seat until Patton suddenly said six words that made me stop in my tracks. 

“You just haven’t seen one yet.” 

Not moving from my spot, I replied, “Because they are fictional.” 

“But would you believe it if you saw it?” 

Well... would I? 

I began to stiffly walk away, trying to avoid this conversation. I wasn't prepared for a crackdown on my thoughts by somebody six years younger than me. A tug on my collar stopped me and I wheeled around. Patton had a surprisingly stern look for an almost-fourth grader. His arms were folded tightly against his blue T-shirt. 

“Logan, would you believe in ghosts if you saw one?” He interrogated. 

I thought for a moment. Of course, I could be hallucinating, or I could have been pranked, or... something else. But maybe this one time, I could trust the imaginative side of things. 

No. No way. I couldn’t. Not after what happened last ti- 

Suddenly I was forcefully being tugged up the stairs by my determined younger brother. 

——— 

Patton flung open the door to the closet. Once again, there was nothing inside but clothes and rays of afternoon sunlight. 

“See? N-no ghosts,” I interjected, hoping he wouldn’t notice my trembling figure. 

“That’s because they’re invisible, you im- imbee- cil,” He responded.

I shook my head and looked again. Still nothing strange. I took hold of his shirt and tugged him away. "Come on, brother," I persisted. But he stayed rooted to the spot, determined to find what wasn't there. 

"Patton. There. Is. Nothing. In. The. Closet." I snapped. 

"You're just not thinking hard enough, brainiac." 

I took him by the shoulders and forced him to turn around and look me in the eyes. He still had the same expression from when he was observing the vacant storage space. 

"You are wasting your time. If you just move on and refrain from thinking about this, you could be doing something PRODUCTIVE." 

He shoved me back off him. His eyebrows were furrowed with anger. "No! I KNOW there could be something there, I KNOW it! Now leave me be!" 

"I'M TRYING TO HELP YOU!"

"WELL, THEN I GUESS YOU'RE NOT DOING YOUR JOB!" 

"H-hello?"

A mysterious third voice cut through our heated battle. That was NOT Dad. It was much more hushed and slightly higher in pitch. Slowly, Patton and I turned around to face the closet, where the voice had come from.

Standing- er, floating, more of- in the doorway was what could have been a human. It had the figure and appearance of a human but looked faded. The half-opacity figure donned a black hoodie with purple square patches on it. They were all visibly sewn on, to cover up any holes from prolonged use, with large stitches across the sides. Their hair was messy and dyed purple, like the patches on their hoodie. The most surprising thing about them was the black and purple eyeshadow under their eyes. They seemed extremely worn-down and tired, like a high school senior who had just pulled an all-nighter. They appeared... broken. Maybe it wasn't an all-nighter that had caused them to look like that. Maybe it was a different type of all-nighter, one that ended in tear-stained pillows and persistent headaches. Despite my assumptions, they asked us only one question. 

"What year is it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW THIS IS WHEN IT STARTS GETTING REAL FOLKS 
> 
> (also sorry for how long this update took, i blame my cat)
> 
> -milo


	4. the past and present

“What year is it?”

I was at a loss for words. 

“Ah- uh, I- erm- wel- wha?” I managed to choke out. 

The figure rubbed their eyes and repeated, “What is the year?” 

Patton finally spoke up, “I-it’s 2018. June 21st. Why?” 

The figure sighed. “It’s barely been six months since.” 

“Since what?” I asked. 

The figure began rubbing its arm out of what I assumed was anxiousness. “Six months since... since I died.” 

Since... they DIED? 

I glanced over at Patton, who looked as confused as I was. What did that mean? If they were dead, then why were they- 

“So you’re a gh-ghost?” I asked the figure. 

“Sadly,” they whispered. 

No, I thought to myself. This couldn’t be real. I knew for a fact that this wasn’t real. Ghosts didn’t exist. They are imaginary. The imaginary isn’t real. 

What is imaginary hurts. What is real doesn’t.

“No, no, no,” I shook my head and turned away out of disbelief. “Patton, nice joke. Very well done. Pardon me while I laugh.” I rolled my head backwards and said “Ha.” 

“Logan, this isn’t a joke,” he replied, suddenly very monotone. 

I paused. It was very unlike him to be serious. 

“But ghosts aren’t real,” I tried to persuade him. 

“Then why am I here?” The figure asked. 

I jumped, due to forgetting of the figure’s actual presence. 

Patton switched the conversation by asking them, “So, what’s your name?” 

“Virgil,” they responded. “I’m a dude. I-in case. You were wondering.” 

“Well, Virgil, I guess you’re part of the family now!” 

“Part of the family”, he had said. I was suddenly caught very off guard. This... being... had no biological relation to us in any way! How could Patton make that statement when even HE knows that it’s not true? 

“Woah, woah, woah,” I chuckled, “Patton, we don’t want to get TOO comfortable with someone we’ve barely met...” I tried to shove my brother away, but he kept his feet firmly planted on the carpet. 

“Logan, he literally LIVES in our HOUSE. That makes someone FAMILY,” he persisted. His resilience was driving me insane. 

 “Somebody living in your house is NOT FAMILY unless they have a BIOLOGICAL RELATION to YOU!” My voice rose in volume. “And THIS-“ I pointed at Virgil- “WHATEVER YOU ARE- IS NOT BIOLOGICAL FAMILY! YOU’RE JUST ACTING IDIOTIC! THIS WHOLE CONVERSATION IS MAKING ME FEEL IDIOTIC! THEY! ARE! NOT! REAL!!” 

My voice cracked on the last word, and my throat was left feeling scratchy. If I were a fire, I could have burnt down an entire forest with ease. Patton would have been driftwood, long since turned to ashes.

“You... you know I can hear you... right?” 

We spun around again to see the gh- Virgil, arms wrapped around his body to comfort himself. We watched in a moment of silence as tears rolled down his face. 

“LOGAN!” Patton yelled. And I mean, he YELLED. Complete with The Foot Stomp Of Aggravation. Hands balled into fists, I knew that I had done something wrong. Horribly wrong. 

He turned back around and tried to comfort the crying... ghost.

I groaned and stomped my way out the door to leave the two alone to their sickening make-believe confession scene. 

I thought Patton would have known better, remembering what happened last time he dreamt too far. 

Without a bedroom of my own to smolder my rage, I slammed the door to the bathroom and lay in the tub for a while. When I finally cooled down, I discovered that my younger brother was asleep. I climbed into bed as quietly as possible and slept away the day.

Turns out sometimes the smallest fires can burn the brightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s official: logan is a dick 
> 
> also pat just needs a hug ok 
> 
> he’s trying his best 
> 
> (fun fact i had to write some of this on my phone bc i couldnt get to a computer so can i get a rip in the chat for my update schedule)
> 
> -milo


	5. midnight mumblings

(Patton's POV)

The wind whistled through the open window as the moonlight casted strange shadows. I heard the distinct sound of Logan snoring from the top bunk. Was that why I woke up in the middle of the night? I guess I wasn't used to the noise.

Restless, I sat up and climbed out of bed. My socks shuffled on the carpet as I paced around the room.

I decided to get a drink of water. That normally helps. Attempting to make as little noise as possible, I tiptoed to the door. The handle squeaked as my wrist turned. It was piercingly loud against the silence. Tiptoeing across the hallway, the faint sounds of Dad's breathing muffled my footsteps, but not by much. The bathroom was at the end of the hall, a closet away from mine and Logan's room. I didn’t open the door too far just yet. It was better to be safe than sorry. Logan says that a lot.

Flicking the light switch up, I noticed someone else inside the bathroom.

"Virgil?" I whispered.

"Hi, Patton," he mumbled.

Confused, I took another step further into the bathroom. Even after my eyes adjusted to the light, he was still sitting there, on the edge of our bathtub. What was he doing here? Why was he here in the first place? As in, why was he in our house? And why was he up so late?

I took a seat next to him. His gaze had shifted back down to his feet. A tangle of emotions were scattered across his expression. He looked to be tense, like always, but also sad. His eyes were half shut, and he had been scratching at his wrists since I walked in. We sat in silence for a little while before I spoke up.

"So, um... if you don't mind me asking, how did you... die?"

Virgil sighed. "I knew one of you would ask me this at some point. I was expecting it from your brother, but then again, you seemed curious enough to ask." His voice was very soft and hoarse. It was definitely a lot different from Logan's harsh tones.

"If you don't want to say why, I understand," I told him.

"Nah. I think I can trust you."

And for the first time, he took off his hoodie.

He was wearing a wrinkled black t-shirt with some band name on it. "My Chemical Romance". Sounds like something Logan would like. He likes chemicals, but not romance. My eyes drifted to the bandages on his arms, and shock hit me. They were stained with lines of red. 

“Virge!” I squeaked. 

Tears began to brim at the corners of his eyes. "Yup," he muttered, fighting back how he felt.

"What happened?" I begged for him to tell me. Was it some sort of accident? Was that how he died? My eyes were brimming with tears just thinking about it. Virgil was starting to get a bit choked up too.

"Well, buddy, let me tell ya."

He stood up off the tub, turning to face me. He straightened his back from its usual hunched-over position. The eyes he met me with were a dark shade of violet. I rubbed at my eyes so I could see him more clearly.

"I, Virgil Thomas, ended my life with a rope around my neck on January 21st, 2018," he announced, stained tears running down his face. The false pride on his face didn't last long before he collapsed back down next to me. Virgil's figure trembled with each sob that escaped. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close to me. He quickly turned this into a full hug. In my opinion, hugs were very good. They could cheer people up really easily. I hoped that Virge felt the same way about them.

"Wh-what's under the bandages?" I asked, pulling away from his gentle arms.

Struggle clogged his voice. "Sc-scars. I... I cut them. In myself. Because... I-I was just... I hated myself."

"Still do."

My heart shattered inside my chest.

"Well..." I tried to think of ways to cheer him up. "If it makes you feel any better, I have a scar too!" I pointed to the faint red line on my arm. I had broken the bone and given myself a huge scratch one day while playing. It really, really hurt. We had to go to the ER. The cast was super itchy.

Virgil tried to smile through the tears.

"That's a pretty neat scar, kiddo," he said. A hint of a smile crept upon his face, and I knew that my job was done.

There was an awkward lull in the conversation. We didn't have much to talk about right now, even though earlier I was bursting at the seams with questions. Maybe this was what Dad called a "change in atmosphere".

I liked Virgil. He was a really good friend. He was a bit sadder than most people I knew, but that was okay. Were all ghosts this quiet and sad? No, there was Casper the Friendly Ghost. Zero from The Nightmare Before Christmas was a ghost dog and he seemed happy. Ghosts were strange.

One observation I made still confused me: Virgil had a physical being. I had grown up to believe that ghosts could drift through walls, but giving a ghost a hug changed this theory.

"I thought ghosts could go through walls, but you felt... real."

He chuckled. "We can choose whether we want to be solid or not. It's confusing. Logan definitely wouldn't approve. Speaking of, why is he so bitc- I mean, grumpy and stern?"

I shrugged. "He acts so smarty-pants all the time. It's like... he lost his imagination somehow."

Silence.

"Well, thanks for letting me talk to you," Virgil said. "It felt... surprisingly good to get that off my chest."

"You're welcome." I stood up off the tub and turned back to give him one last hug.

I left the bathroom, Virgil behind me. I paused to listen to the faint rustle of him settling into the tub. Did he sleep there? I assumed so.

I hoped he slept well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that was my attempt at writing from a nine-year-old's point of view.
> 
> anyways sorry for not updating at all recently, i have a plan for the upcoming chapters
> 
> -milo


End file.
